


Blue Sunshine

by Effluvium



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assault, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bombing, Dani Powell also needs a hug, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, I have no sympathy for him, Injury, Major Character Injury, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Martin Whitly is a goddamn psychopath, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Psychological Trauma, Sunshine is the best bird, worst case scenario
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 01:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21437788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effluvium/pseuds/Effluvium
Summary: JT was a tough dude, not some cry-baby.  That didn’t change the fact that he wanted to swaddle the man in blankets on an old, comfortable couch, with soup and not-tea and just talk about something normal, something not my-father’s-a-serial-killer-and-he-almost-serial-killed-me.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 262





	Blue Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this since around episode 4 and it doesn't really have any connection to any of the episodes. I just saw the red line and thought "oh well that could go badly."
> 
> Prodigal Son is a great show and I highly recommend it to literally everyone.
> 
> Also this is the longest work that I've done in a while. Please comment and kudo and bookmark -- they make me happy :)

Malcom Bright came in with a limp, with a bandage around his arm, with gauze and bandages around his neck and chest, sliding underneath his smooth, hundred-dollar dress-shirt and tie. 

He came in to work, with all of this.

“Bright?” JT reacted first, standing and rushing to him in a very non-JT-like manner. He stopped before he half-way reached the man, staring as Bright tensed, backed away, a wary look in his blue-green eyes. The bags beneath them were enormous.

Dani and Gil noticed next, both respectively whispering in concern, watching as Bright slugged to his office, the office he’d earned a few months ago, sitting down and looking at nothing in particular, unbandaged hand trembling worse than ever before.

It took a few minutes, but Dani eased herself in a chair next to him. There was no immediate eye-contact, but she pushed on, whispering, “What happened?”

He pointed to his throat, and for the first time she noticed that there was blood seeping through, and the gauze was covering more of his neck than she initially took note of. Blue-black bruising spread beneath the wraps. He couldn’t speak.

“You can’t speak?”

He nodded painfully, reaching for the black-and-yellow notepad he always kept on his desk. _Immense bruising, punctures and slashes_.

“Why’re you here, Bright?” Dani rubbed her face, looking into his tired eyes. “You should be resting, in a hospital.”

_I can’t. Be there. I need to be here, need to think._

“Who did this?”

She heard JT and Gil shuffle behind her, listening closely for the answer, for her reaction. It took Malcolm a painstakingly long time to put the pen to paper.

_Whitly - - dad._

Her blood went cold. His tremble got worse. “Malcolm…”

_There’s this red line in his cell and I wasn’t paying attention and I stepped forward too much because I was thinking about the case, I was distracted and he just he just went off, he grabbed these scissors they let him have, because he runs the goddamn place and he’s technically not a harm to himself and he tackled me and he_

Everything beyond that point was illegible, Malcolm’s typically neat handwriting making way for some horrible chicken scratch, letters mixed in as he wore out the pen, grasping it with a nervous strength that made it slip, an awful line dragging across his words, his confession, and he made a sort of angered moan, reaching for the pen in desperation, trying to find where it fell under the desk.

“Malcolm, you’re going to hurt yourself even more, Malcolm --” Dani tried intervening, but he wasn’t hearing, instead continuing to make the awful, feral noise, until he just sat back and let out long, gasping breaths, hands shaking like he had Parkinson’s.

Dani grasped him, leaning his small chest and head against her’s, cradling him as he shook; unwarranted cries escaped his bruised, mute throat, and she could only imagine what he would sound like if there were no restrictions on his voice.

She remembered all those far-off looks he’d have when he would sit in the conference room after long days, or long cases, and just close his eyes with his hands to his face, pressed together as if he were praying. His lips would draw into a thin line and his brows would furrow, and this rich, pretty, privileged boy would age fifty years in thirty seconds, completely void of movement and breath.

She looked behind him, on his desk, and nearly cried out with laughter — the damn bird, Sunshine, was sitting there, cleaning her feathers, glancing up at Malcolm every two milliseconds. 

“Malcolm, Sunshine’s here.”

He looked up, staring at her yellow and gold and orange feathers, blank. His pet’s presence doesn’t seem to be processing, and he goes truly still. A breeze floats through, and they both realize the window’s open. Sunshine flew there, to the precinct.

It breaks Malcolm.

Dani doesn’t know what to do when he just stops moving; his gaze, first transfixed on Sunshine, wanders, unfocused, blue eyes unblinking despite the sun shining painfully in them. She shakes him slightly, trying to get his attention — _Bright, you there?_ — but it’s fruitless.

Gil walks over, glancing between Bright and the bird, a frown gracing his features. “Why wasn’t he talking?”

“He can’t. Here, help me move him to the couch.”

He does so, gently coaxing Malcolm into a standing position, walking him over to the break room and locking the door behind him. Sunshine sits on his shoulder, cuddling against his neck, pecking slightly at his hair.

“It was Martin.”

Gil doesn’t know what to say in response to that — it’s a horror, something awful, and he would’ve never imagined it. “Martin would never hurt his kids, especially Malcolm.”

“He’s a _serial killer_,” Dani retorts, looking shocked. Her hands motion to the injured man through the door. “I’d say he’d hurt whoever he pleases.”

Gil sighs, shaking his head. “How’d he do it?”

“Scissors. Gil, I can’t imagine…” She can’t imagine it, at all. It’s one thing to be strung on drugs, to be subjected to an addiction that seems to be nagging at her mind, forever and ever, but to have escaped it, defeated it. It’s another thing to be JT, to have served and seen the horrors of the world, and to have turned out okay. And then it’s another thing all together, to watch some twenty-something year old pretty-boy who’s been subjected to torture of all kinds, who’s been attacked by his own father, who is a serial killer, a psychopath. 

Seeing him there, in his bandages and blank face, he looks dead. He’s pale, the bruises cover his skin like art, his hands limp and unmoving, blood soaking through the bandages, out his nose — 

“He’s bleeding.” Dani starts, eyes going wide, pushing the door open. “His nose, his ears — Gil, call an —”

A complex seizure. One in a lifetime, apparently, because it’s been three days and his brain’s fine. It lasted three minutes. He shouldn’t be able to talk right now, to move his mouth and make as much noise as he can with the bandages. He shouldn’t be able to move his body, he should be paralyzed, injured beyond repair.

It’s God’s Will, that he’s fine. As fine as he can be, with a father who attacked him with a pair of rusty scissors and his own vicious Will.

_Does he match the profile?_

Malcolm hates hospitals, and Dani gets it; he’s on enough medication to consider his own home a room, to make him a daily patient, and now he’s on even more. Dani’s there to make sure he doesn’t get strung up on Morphine, or on some other overly-prescribed opioid — _Dani, I fucking hate this_ — and she gets it, it’s scary.

She considers herself moral, in the eyes of God, but more importantly in the eyes of Gil. She’d never kill someone, not if she were willed to by mind control, or on some crazy high after a bust gone wrong. She’d never kill someone, not in her right mind.

But she wasn’t in her right mind. She wanted to kill Martin Whitly, and for what? For a pretty boy she’d known only really a year?

It’s been a year. _It’s been a year_.

Jessica was infuriated, and Dani’s sure that Martin’s already dead. The Whitly’s were powerful, rich people, and she’s sure that if she’s angry enough, she could call on a hit on her own husband. Ex-husband.

Dani watches Malcolm’s sleeping form carefully, knowing he’d fought against the drugs for hours before finally submitting. Sunshine had to be taken out — no pets in the hospital, except for therapy dogs and the occasional cat. And emotional support animals. She’s pretty sure Sunshine could probably count as that.

_His bird will live longer than him._

It’s four hours later when he wakes up, and Dani’s there to grasp his arms as he violently starts, a quiet, raspy scream escaping his injured throat. He’s gasping and wheezing, and his heart monitor is going off, and it’s even too much for her.

“Malcolm, I’m here, feel my hands.”

His blue eyes become lighter and lighter the more beaten he is. They’re the lightest grey now, wide and rimmed with bruises, and he isn’t pretty anymore. They stare at her, glistening with tears, and she feels awful because he looks awful, horrendous, tortured. 

Malcolm drops his stare and leans back, gritting his teeth, lips drawing into a thin line. His bandaged neck is stained with new, fresh blood, and his chest heaves painfully. He clenches his hands as they shake violently, hitting his leg with his fists, just enough force to elicit a wince from both of them.

“Don’t do that, Malcolm, you’ll only hurt yourself more.” Dani sounds like her mother. It’s horrendously inconsiderate.

“Why —” his voice scratches out, but he doesn’t continue. Tears gather heavily and finally fall, because it’s so painful, it hurts so much.

Dani hands him the water from the bedside; it’s cold, but not frigid, and he chokes it down, spitting most of it back up on his blanket. He growls faintly, more tears falling, and Dani winces.

He’s frustrated, beyond belief, beyond anything fathomable. His life is falling apart, and it hurts so much, and Dani can’t help him. His face, his anguish, reads _let me die_, and Dani hates that, too. It’s so weird being the one that’s okay, the one not strung up to fifty machines in a sterile, depressing hospital, with no voice and no will to live.

_Why what?_

“I’ve got another blanket, Malcolm, it’s okay.” She reached into the bag behind her, pulling out a simple quilt. “Is there anything you want?”

He stared for a minute (scaring her immensely, but she tried not to think that way, it’s too scary, like some stupid suspenseful horror movie), until he nodded, motioning with his [thin] hands. 

She handed him a notepad and pencil. She waited for him to write something, but he never turned the pad to face her. Malcolm drew, and his gaze drifted, eyes lidding slightly as he pressed the led to paper.

“Gil, why haven’t you come see him?”

JT had. A couple other officers at the precinct had stopped by, popped their heads in the doorway, given him some flowers and a balloon. Edrisa had made some killer soup, even if Malcolm had only had a teaspoon of it out of the thermos.

“I’ve only seen one other person like that,” he looked at his hands, then at Dani, “and it was my wife on her deathbed.”

Dani wrung her hands.

“I mean, she had cancer. Her hair was falling out and her skin was pale, and every bruise seemed to show up on her body like an awful splash of color.”

_He still can’t speak. The puncture and the stabbing, it’s really taken a toll._

Gil blinked, leaning back, eyes closed. “She wasn’t attacked and broken, but she had the same broken _look_, y’know? No matter how positive you are, nothing matters when you’ve got Stage 4 and you’re gonna die in a month. It’s hopeless, and even my sweet, optimistic wife couldn’t get past that.”

Dani saw it too, whenever she looked at Malcolm. But the thoughts of _he needs you_ and _I swear, he’s suicidal_ couldn’t help but enter her mind, and who was she to put that on Gil? This is how he copes. He lost one, and he won’t touch another with a ten-foot stick because it’ll hurt _him_.

_It’ll hurt him._

“I’m not here to make you feel guilty,” Dani interjects, making eye contact with her boss, “but he’s bad.”

“I know.”

She shook her head, crossing her arms. “No, I don’t think you do. I don’t think any of us do, but he needs _somebody_, Gil. He’s got massive, ugly scarring all along his throat and chest. He won’t be able to talk for another three months, at _least_. His left leg, it’s fucked up, and still causes him pain beyond belief.”

_Remember how he just walked in? Like we’d ignore him?_

Gil wouldn’t look at her, but he was thinking — thinking of the pale blue-green eyes and the awful bags beneath them.

“I got Sunshine registered as a support animal.” Dani’s hands shook, anger and stress and frustration building by the second. “That stupid bird doesn’t leave his shoulder. I didn’t even know she could fly, she’s always in that cage.”

“Malcolm likes control.”

“Yeah, well, at the moment he’s got none of it.”

Gil’s phone rang, making the two officers jump. He picks it up, answering with a _yes, Jessica?_ and his eyes go wide, panicked, scared, all the things that Gil isn’t.

“We’ll find him, don’t worry.”

JT would never admit that he and Bright were friends, much less close ones. The guy was a narcissistic pretty boy, always with his nose where it shouldn’t be. His antics unnerved JT and fueled this uncomfortable, insatiable twist in his stomach. His very voice pissed him off, sending off _I’m going to hate this dude_ vibes, and it roiled through his head in the hours after the work day.

None of this was true; this is what JT transmitted, but not what he thought, not at all. Especially here at Claremont, standing several feet behind the profiler. The profiler who was watching his father sleep, head tilted in slight concentration.

There was a bird on his shoulder, his left one. What was her name, Sunny? Sol? _Sunshine_.

JT walked up, stopping beside Malcolm, on his right. He didn’t mention the bandages, the blood, the obvious lack of weight on his left leg, the cast his arm laid in beneath his triple-hundred-dollar jacket. He especially didn’t mention the bruises under his eyes, and how the orbs were the palest he’s ever seen, and how they made him physically uncomfortable.

_He looks like some tortured demon._

JT was a tough dude, not some cry-baby. That didn’t change the fact that he wanted to swaddle the man in blankets on an old, comfortable couch, with soup and not-tea and just talk about something normal, something not my-father’s-a-serial-killer-and-he-almost-serial-killed-me.

Martin Whitly laid in his bed, seemingly asleep, hair tousled and arms twisted around him and the restraints. The books along his walls, the carpet, everything _screamed_ Whitly, screamed rich and powerful and even-though-I’m-a-monster-I’m-still-treated-as-royalty.

“Didn’t think you’d want to come back here, if I’m being completely honest.” JT kept his voice quiet. “Do you know sign language?”

Malcolm glanced sideways, nodding. _Do you?_

“Yeah. Gramma taught me as soon as I turned four ‘cause Pa’s half deaf.”

_I’ve never seen him sleep._

“Well, even a serial killer needs rest.”

_I just mean,_ Malcolm paused, thinking, _every time I come here, he’s always awake._

“Why _are_ you here, Malcolm?”

He wrung his hands together, and JT then remembered that one of his arms was plastered and practically immobile. The man looked lost momentarily, looking at his father through the glass.

_They still haven’t got my blood up off the floor._

JT stiffened, eyes drifting to the faint stains. They were sloppy as hell — a streak leading to the door, which must’ve been from dragging Malcolm, and then there were other streaks, as if they couldn’t be bothered to efficiently clean up. They spread the blood around like some child cleaning up a simple milk spill.

_He said he’d never hurt me._

“Malcolm,” JT rubbed his neck, “he’s a serial killer.”

_I know, but he’s my dad, too — it was always assumed that he’d… he’d not touch his family. He always said he wouldn’t, that he could never._

“Clearly he can.”

_Clearly._

Sunshine nipped at Malcolm’s ear, earning a pained smile from the profiler. The two of them tensed, watching as Martin opened his eyes, looking around the room sitting up. He locked eyes with Malcolm, not even sparing a glance in JT’s direction.

Nothing happened. Nothing, until Malcolm’s shoulders relaxed and his panicked gaze turned into a hardened, tired stare. Sunshine cawed, wings flapping aggressively. Martin’s expression was unreadable, completely void of emotion and movement, save for the twitch in his left eye.

Malcolm pulled out a bag out of his pocket; there were scissors in it, covered in dried blood. Martin stood at once, rushing forward, and JT (with his hand immediately on his pistol) didn’t miss Malcolm’s slight flinch, how he winced prematurely despite the bulletproof glass between him and his father.

The chain pulled Martin back, prevented him from getting within three feet of the glass. He was feral almost, eyes wide, hair a mess; he pulled against the restraints with a vigor JT had never seen before. The wince made sense now — how terrifying must it have been when the restraints did nothing, when that man was on top of you, attacking, hurting, killing you?

“Give them to me,” Martin snarled, waving his bound hands wildly, eyeing the bag with hunger. “Come in, give them to me, now.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows furrowed, and he lowered the bag, out of Martin’s line of sight. It set the man off, making him surge with a newfound strength, straining against the chains in desperation.

Before JT could say anything, Malcolm put the scissors back in his coat pocket and turned around, walking away. They ignored the yelling behind them, and soon they were out of the building, taking in the cool, November air.

“Thanksgiving’s next week,” JT said, looking at Malcolm. “The whole precinct is coming to my house this year. I know your throat’s messed up, but my sweet potatoes and mac n’ cheese will go down pretty easy.”

Malcolm smiled. _I’d love to come. Thank you._

They walked in silence a for a couple more minutes, before JT broke. “What’s with the scissors, man?”

_He likes to keep his tools._

Edrisa had a crush on Bright, but it was fading. She was okay with just friends, and he seemed more comfortable with that. It was nicer, being able to talk and hang out without that sexual tension looming over the two of them — she wasn’t one for subtlety, after all. 

This was especially nice now, when he was mute and injured.

His eyes followed her as she talked, cool and tired. She’d never mention it, but she couldn’t remember the last time he _wasn’t_ tired — after the incident in the precinct almost a year ago, he wouldn’t let himself so much as doze off.

“He’s got restraints in his bed,” Dani whispered to her one day, hot coffee in hand. “I thought it was weird at first, because, like, what kind of freak has cuffs and chains in his bed, but then….”

Then, Dani had remembered the sprint into her arms and how he’d looked terrified, hair a mess, eyes wide and breathing haggard. Everyone had pointed guns at him like he’d hurt her (like she’d let him hurt her), and Gil had told her about the night terrors and PTSD.

“I’m sure he finds them weird, too.” Edrisa had replied, taking a sip of her tea. “I mean, sure, he’s probably used them for a while, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t aware.”

With this mute period from Malcolm, Edrisa often just watched him observe. He was always observing, as if everyone had a profile worth figuring out. There were still large, expansive bandages along his throat, and his arm was still in a sling even two months later, and his left leg was still a mess, but he was getting better.

“I brought more soup,” It was December 21st and Edrisa handed him a thermos and a spoon. “This one has basil and noodles. My mom always made it for me when I was sick.”

Because he was — on top of all these injuries, he was sniffling and wheezing. The pain in his throat must’ve been immense, with the stitching still left over and the throbbing from the cold.

He signed a quick _thank you_ and dug in, taking in large sips, eyes closing in delight. _This is delicious, E-d-r-i-s-a._

And he is getting better. “I’m glad you like it. I’ve got a new body for you to look at if you’re up for it.”

It’s March twenty-third when Claremont Psychiatric Ward explodes. The FBI is there, naturally, but so are the NYPD -- it’s their jurisdiction, too.

There’s dust and smoke in the air, and everyone’s got masks on to filter the mess out of their lungs. The fires have yet to be put out, but they’re under control, and EMT’s are being overwhelmed with bodies, both of nurses and of killers. No one mourns over the latter, except maybe the six-year-old boy with curly brown hair and brown eyes and dark, freckled skin who’s crying over the body of some seventy-year-old murderer.

It’s his grandfather. His mother, a red-haired woman, just looks frustrated with the boy. _Don’t care for a killer, son, he never cared for you._

And that’s probably not true, that man probably had cared for his grandson.

Malcolm was trying not to let his own care show, but it was killing him. Behind the mask on his face there was panic, and he kept rubbing at his neck, at his God-awful scars. His hand was trembling and he needed to be a professional, indifferent, uncaring.

What’s a bunch of dead killers to him?

“Who set the bomb off?” Gil had just arrived, and his gaze was already on Malcolm. “Or, well, multiple bombs.”

“Bomb Squad can’t confirm yet; the building’s too much of a hazard right now for them to properly assess for trails.”

JT shakes his head. “You think it’s a terror attack?”

“On a psychiatric ward for high profile criminals?” Gil shakes his head. “Doubtful.”

And Malcolm agrees, but he feels utterly useless here, on this pavement, staring up at the leftovers of the building. The smoke is burning his eyes and he knows he should be more careful, but they still haven’t got all the bodies out, and not one of them has been Martin Whitly.

_“There’s been an attack on Claremont Psychiatric Ward, home to….”_

And he’s desperately trying to ignore Ainsely, forty feet behind him, reporting the story like it has no detriment on their lives.

He’s looking up at the building and there’s something awfully quiet about it; even with all the fire, all the destruction, there’s a calm in the air, like the quiet before the storm --

An explosion knocks them off their feet, sending him and Gil flying away from the remnants. He’s on the ground and he can’t move, there’s something weighing him down (the rocks in his lungs?), but all he can think is _Gil Gil Gil_.

The man is two feet to his right, seemingly coughing slightly but alive. Malcolm’s thankful, but his scars are burning like there’s no tomorrow (and there honestly might not be one, he can’t hear anything, his eyes are bleeding) and his chest, there’s something heavy on it, heavy and hurtful.

Quantico taught him quick recovery, especially at times like this. They’d done modules with relatively fake bombs and he’d been able to get up the quickest out of everyone in training. They’d given a special badge for it, something silly, and they’d all laughed about it.

No one was laughing now, and he couldn’t move.

Someone was shaking him, sudden and harsh, and his eyesight is blurry but he can see it’s Ainsely, a small gash on her temple. She’s shouting something, and it’s probably his name, but he can’t hear her. There are tears in her eyes.

Malcolm soon realizes that Gil’s there, too, but he looks terrified. Dani’s on the phone, holding a towel up to JT’s leg, and they’re both shooting nervous glances his way.   
He wonders if this is what it’s like being deaf, to watch the world converse around you, without a care that you’re lost in it.

There’s something warm in his throat, and if anything, that’s the most frustrating thing. Dr. Hallaway had said that he’d be able to start talking properly in a few weeks, if everything went according to plan. 

Of course, like every other instance in Malcolm’s life, it didn’t.

Ainsely rolled him on his side and he coughed up the warm substance in his throat, eyeing the red on the pavement in front of him. He could see his hands now, and they were just as red and ruined, and his tremor had gotten considerably worse now that he thought about it. The ringing was so loud, so loud, so loud.

“--colm?”

“Bright, can you hear us?”

Malcolm tried to talk, but all that came out was a raspy, ruined keen. He sighed, weakly making a thumbs up. Everything flooded in at once; sirens, shouting, crying, wailing, Ainsely’s incessant voice. For a second, Malcolm missed the quiet.

But just for a second.

“Malcolm, how’s your breathing?” Gil’s voice was awful, rasping and rough.

He shook his head.

“You’ve got shrapnel in your chest,” JT interjected. “Fence exploded and lodged itself in there. Hospital had to send new EMTs over.”

And Malcolm saw why; the ambulances were demolished and the dead bodies had tripled within them. The boy was nowhere to be seen, and his mother was sobbing, right leg a mangled mess. Grandpa Murderer was unrecognizable.

Ainsely turned him on his back, rubbing his arm, brown eyes harsh. “I was reporting and there was suddenly this bang, and something hit me in the head, and you and Gil and Tarmel were on the ground, you --”

Malcolm really just wanted her to stop talking; breathing was already difficult enough, but watching her tear up and hiccup and sob was worse. He clasped her hand, smiling as much as he could. His lip began bleeding, and his teeth must’ve been stained red because Ainsely just started crying more.

He pried his hand out of her’s, signing _this is insane_.

Dani snickered. “You’re internally bleeding and that’s what you have to say?”

_I’m…_ his hands faltered, the tremor making his signs near unreadable. Pain shot through his chest and now he really couldn’t breathe.

“Malcolm?” Gil glanced him over, hands hovering. “What’s --”

His mouth gaped open like a fish and he spread his fingers, desperately signing. It was sloppy and shaky, so only JT got it.

“Breath -- he can’t breathe, Gil, where are the EMTs?”

“They’re here, thank God -- over here!” Ainsely screamed, rising and waving her hands. Dani rushed over to the ambulance, grabbing their attention.

_I’m tired_. Malcolm looked at Ainsley, at her holding his face between her hands, but he was so tired.

Maybe just a few minutes, just for a little rest.

June seventeenth. Sunshine was flying around the apartment, and she’d just stolen Dani’s toast. It’s as if the Devil on your shoulder got bored.

Malcolm hadn’t woken up yet, but that was a good thing; she’d been up all night, binging _Atypical_ on Netflix. He’d fallen asleep after the fourth episode of _Daredevil_.

She’d been up all night, and hadn’t heard a peep from his room. She’d checked a couple times (on the restraints, y’know, not to make sure he was still breathing), and he’d been fine, sound asleep, not a nightmare in sight.

Sunshine pecked on her oats and she shooed her away, groaning. Gil had called, said there was a new case, but that they shouldn’t come. They needed their rest, especially Malcolm, especially _her_.

_If you do decide to come, I promise there aren’t any bombs here._

Because that was a thing that needed to be checked, now; the Claremont Bombing had been set up with no hate towards the killers and all the hate towards the police. Seventeen FBI agents were killed, forty more injured. Eighty percent of the prison’s population had died. Seven civilians killed, four injured, and the NYPD had lost an astounding forty-seven officers, with twenty-four more hospitalized.

The numbers were stained in her head, barcoded on her subconscious. Malcolm was in a medically-induced coma for three weeks, and stayed for another month-and-a-half. Gil was hospitalized for four days. JT had a permanent limp.

_Malcolm, we’re twinsies._

He’d signed back _my limp’s gone, bro._

It’d actually been _brother_, because he didn’t know the sign for “bro.”

Dani Powell needed the sleep, the rest, because she’d been the NYPD’s sole commanding officer for nearly two months, in charge of the chaos of the aftermath. Gil was initially unfit for duty, and she was his runner-up.

She’d hated it, because it was a barrage of questions that she never seemed to have the answers to.

_Who is the bomber?_

_Why didn’t the bomb squad find the third bomb beforehand?_

_How many of the inmates were killed?_

_Is The Surgeon alive?_

Ainsley hadn’t been there, at any of the conferences. She’d been at the hospital with her mother, at Malcolm’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up. He didn’t, for a while. For a long while. 

Those three weeks felt like an eternity.

So last night was the first night Malcolm had slept at home in nearly three months. His stitches were dissolving, the internal bleeding fixed, his arm out of a cast and his limp gone. If not for his mangled, scarred throat and chest, he would’ve looked normal.

“So,” a voice [raspy, croaking, ruined] sounded to her right, “is The Surgeon dead?”

And now, he was talking. Those were his first words in over eight months.

Dani smiled. Sunshine landed on Malcolm’s shoulder. 

Everything was suddenly okay.


End file.
